


5 Times Martin Failed to Have His First Shag And the 1 Time When He Did

by fractionallyfoxtrot



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractionallyfoxtrot/pseuds/fractionallyfoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Five times Martin failed to have his first shag and the one time when he did](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/4885.html?thread=6709269#cmt6709269) prompt on the meme.
> 
> Many thanks to [citruspocket](http://citruspocket.dreamwidth.org/) for being my beta/sounding board.

**One**

Martin shut his eyes tightly against what he worried was a dream. None of the girls at school had ever taken an interest in him so the other person in his bed had to be a fantasy, an incredibly vivid figment of his imagination that had soft hands, smelled like lilacs, and tasted like strawberry-flavored lip gloss. Delicate fingers danced through his curly red hair, their movements mimicking the play of another’s lips against his own.

“Martin.”

The sing-songy whisper of his name forced Martin to open his eyes; she was real. Emily lay beside him, the afternoon sun pouring in from the window behind her casting a warm glow in her brown hair. It was the nice Emily, not the popular one; the other Emily in his year would never be found talking to Martin, much less in his bed. He preferred the nice one though. She helped him in history and they occasionally walked home together if the rest of her friends had run off with their beaus of the week.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Of course I’m all right,” he assured her. “More than all right, in fact. I’m, I’m great, this, this is great.”

“Martin,” she said again, gently touching his face, “I’m nervous too.”

“I’m not-”

Emily covered Martin’s unconvincing denial with a kiss. She grabbed handfuls of his t-shirt and pulled at him until he was carefully hovering over her, bent at the neck to keep his lips pressed to hers. Emily slid her hands over his back, pushing the fabric up over his skin. Martin caught the hint and removed his t-shirt. He watched intently as Emily removed hers, unable to pull his eyes away from the newly exposed skin. Emily’s were not the first pair of breasts he’d ever seen but they were the first that he’d seen, to use an appropriate phrase, in the flesh and he couldn’t stop staring at them. Martin dared to skate a hand up along her side, hesitating a moment before cupping and squeezing one.

Emily moaned softly at his touch. Her hand was tangled in his hair again and she made Martin return to her lips. They were both a bit clumsy, still getting used to each other’s mouth, but neither one would criticize the other’s methods. As they fell into a rhythm, their hands began to explore. Martin only had one, the other being used to hold himself up, but he made the most of it, running his fingers over the curves he could barely believe he was touching.

The door to his bedroom, which Martin swore he locked, flew open and slammed against the adjacent wall. Startled by the sudden intrusion, Martin lost his balance and fell onto Emily, just barely missing elbowing her in the stomach. He was mortified to see his brother Simon standing in the doorway.

“Martin!” Simon shouted as he stepped into the room uninvited. “Mum has sent me to once again ask you to-”

Simon’s words dried up and his eyes widened when he saw that his brother was not alone. A decent sibling would apologize for the invasion of privacy and make a swift exit. Martin would’ve settled for the swift exit but he knew that, especially when it came to Martin, Simon was anything but decent.

“You’re Emily Rogers, right?” Simon asked. “Pete’s little sister?”

“Simon, get the fuck out,” Martin ordered.

“Oh, I can’t wait to tell him this,” Simon chuckled.

“Now!” Martin shouted. He jumped out of his bed as quickly as he could, being careful to avoid stepping on Emily, and shoved his brother squarely in the chest. “Get the fuck out now!” he yelled, pushing Simon back until he could slam the door in his face.

Martin slumped against the door with a groan, turning the lock and giving it a kick for good measure. He closed his eyes and breathed out a long sigh. When he looked up, Emily was sitting up, holding her previously discarded t-shirt to her chest.

“Emily, I’m sorry-”

“Martin, I’m going to go home.”

“What?”

She nodded and put her clothes back on. Martin watched her carefully as she stood up from his bed and came over to him. The shy nervousness was gone from her eyes, replaced by something sadder that he couldn’t identify.

“But,” he tried again.

“I’ll call you, okay?”

Martin stupidly nodded his head. Emily unlocked the door and he moved aside so she could leave. He didn’t bother closing it behind her; nothing was going to stop Simon and Caitlyn from coming in to tease him once they saw her leave. He crawled back into his bed, pulling the covers over his head, and tried to find a spot that didn’t smell like Emily.

She never called him. Emily decided that she could leave for uni as a virgin and Martin, through no decision of his own, did the same.

* * *

**Two**

There were many things Martin didn’t understand about Brent.

Brent was studying to become an architect; he had a tendency to launch into long, passionate discussions about light, space, and concrete. Martin didn’t understand what was so fascinating about concrete but he recognized the look that glazed over people’s faces when Brent talked about buildings and he was determined not to be one of the many.

Brent’s favorite pastime outside his studies was rugby, playing it, watching it, dissecting it. Rugby was a more socially acceptable hobby; Martin was allowed to tag along when Brent and his mates went down to the pub to watch the matches. He didn’t know the difference between a scrum and a wing but Martin enjoyed going because Brent was always willing to explain the latest play to him.

Brent was far too attractive to be spending any of his time with Martin. His experience up until meeting Brent had taught Martin that he was average at best and when his inarticulateness was factored in, Martin was lucky if other average people were willing to hang out with him. He couldn’t grasp why Brent would volunteer to have lunch with Martin or grab a pint with him on weekends. Although he had to admit it was humorous, and oddly satisfying, when flirty girls batting their eyelashes at Brent were politely brushed off so he could continue talking to Martin.

Of course the thing that Martin understood the least was why _he_ found Brent attractive.

Martin had been in denial about it for weeks. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t that he personally found Brent attractive, it was that Martin merely recognized Brent’s obvious good looks. However, when Martin found his mind repeatedly returning to images of Brent--post match, his sandy blonde hair scruffy with sweat and dirt--when he masturbated, it became hard to argue that his interests in Brent were purely platonic.

So when Brent accompanied Martin back to his flat and pinned him against the wall, Martin didn’t argue at all. 

It was so different from the kissing Martin had done with girls. Brent towered an additional five inches over Martin and he had to lift his chin to meet the other man’s lips. Stubble scratched at his jaw when Brent tilted his head to work his tongue into Martin’s mouth, a constant reminder that it was another man that Martin was kissing. Rough, calloused hands pushed up under his shirt and Martin, having seen Brent play rugby, found himself just as eager to touch the athletic body pressed up against him.

“Can’t explain it,” Brent mumbled, pulling away from Martin’s lips. He licked a long, wet stripe up Martin’s neck that left Martin trembling for more. “I’ve never considered myself the type to fancy other blokes, never have before, but... I can’t get you out of my bloody head. Martin, can I?”

Martin nodded in answer to the open ended question and Brent bit back a groan, dropping back to Martin’s neck. Martin ran his hands through the sandy blonde hair that had featured so prominently in his fantasies. It made Brent growl low in his throat, turning experimental kisses into greedy open mouthed tastes of Martin’s skin. Teeth unexpectedly bit into Martin’s neck, causing him to arch his back and roll his hips towards Brent. He was surprised when his hardening cock rubbed against Brent's through their jeans and even more surprised when Brent groaned again and stepped into the touch.

Martin grabbed at Brent's arse, encouraging the delicious friction of Brent dragging their cocks over each other. Every movement was new and different and just felt so _fucking_ good. He let his head roll back against the wall and gave himself up to the sensations.

"Going to fuck you, mate," Brent growled, biting into Martin's neck with a force that was sure to bruise.

Lust coursed through Martin's veins as his mind was assaulted with images prompted by Brent's statement, images of things he needed even though he'd never even known he wanted them. 

_Brent naked, panting, and sweaty not because of rugby but because of Martin._

_Martin being pushed into the bed by strong, toned arms._

_Brent's hand pulling at Martin's red hair as he fucked him in the arse._

The vividness of Martin's imagination, which helped keep him sane as he'd waited for another opportunity like this to arise, suddenly became his downfall. The images were as real in his mind as the tongue in his mouth and the hips grinding with his. The levels of Martin's pleasure rose exponentially until there were only threads of his control to grasp at. He tried desperately to hold on, he wanted the images in his mind to become more than just images, but Brent's hand slid over his jeans and stroked his cock and Martin felt the mounting tension inside him snap.

The groan that left Martin's mouth was strangled as his orgasm tangled with his sickening disappointment. He shut his eyes against the embarrassment that colored his cheeks and tried to take deep, calming breaths. Martin hadn't meant for it to end, it had come so quickly; he hoped that it could just be chalked up to a mistake.

The look on Brent's face when Martin opened his eyes told him he was wrong.

Brent pulled his hands away from Martin and took a step back. Both men stared at each other for a few minutes; neither of them had any experience that would guide them through what came next. Martin ran a hand through his hair and tried to straighten himself out, ignoring the uncomfortable mess in his pants.

"Brent, I'm-"

"It's nothing," Brent said, waving his hand dismissively. "Happens to all of us, eh? Nothing to trouble ourselves over."

"Do you want to-"

Whether intentional or not, Martin saw the slight flinch as he stepped towards Brent. The other man took a step back.

“No. I mean, no, it’s all right. I’d better get going. I’ll just...”

Brent didn’t finish his sentence. He managed a half-hearted grin then turned and headed for the front door. Martin trailed behind him at what he felt was a safe distance. He stupidly felt the need to say something as Brent reached for the door.

“See you around?” Martin asked.

“Yeah,” Brent said without looking back, “I’ll see you around, Martin.”

When the door had closed, Martin cursed loudly and pounded his fists against the nearest wall. He turned his back on it and sunk to the floor. He sat there for a while, trapped alone with his thoughts in the silence. Martin got up a few hours later to take a shower, motivated only by the desire to wash himself clean of this experience.

Martin did see Brent around after that but only in passing; they didn't spend time together any more. It was tolerable at first but eventually Martin altered his routine, walking different paths at different times, so he could avoid seeing Brent walking hand in hand with his new girlfriend, a short, shy girl with suspiciously curly red hair.

* * *

**Three**

Celeste was also far too attractive to be spending any of her time with Martin; she was a classic example of how far one's standards could be lowered when one was using another body to escape the troubles that plagued mind and spirit. Her motives were clear even to Martin. He might have felt slightly more put out if he wasn't essentially doing the same.

Coming down from his fifth, yes fifth, attempt to get his CPL left Martin with nothing but the desire to be anywhere that wasn't his dank attic room where he was alone and a failure, two of his least favorite things. As depressing as his outlook on life was becoming, the tiny ember of determination that still barely glowed inside of him wouldn't let him turn to drugs on the rationale that addiction would be much harder to explain to a future employer than incompetence. However Martin was quickly running out of money for alcohol which left sex as the only remaining option for distracting him from his troubles, as Martin could only assume it would.

Celeste should have been perfect for that. She was older than Martin, with experience he could've benefited from, and she had plans to use him to forget about her own troubles, something involving her husband and a cocktail waitress, or was it a bartender, he hadn't really been listening. She was nice enough, buying Martin a drink and offering him sympathy for his recent failure before inviting him back to hers. Also, Celeste was keen; no one had given Martin a second look in years but Celeste was dragging him inside before the taxi driver finished counting his fare.

Martin went through the motions, following her into the living room and falling with her onto the couch. He kept his eyes closed as they kissed; the color of her hair reminded him of an experience that usually kept Martin away from blondes... and rugby. Celeste whispered suggestions as her hands moved over his body, things that she wanted Martin to do to her, some of which he was afraid he didn't know how to do. Fear of the unknown had never kept Martin from putting forth a good effort but, in this case, his heart just wasn't in it.

Neither was his cock.

Celeste's hand slid between his legs but there was very little for her to stroke or grab.

"Martin?"

Martin pulled himself away from her lips and buried his face in the crux of her neck. He should’ve felt more embarrassed; he was a perfectly healthy man, lying with a good looking woman who was more than willing to take his unmentioned virginity, and yet his body showed no interest in that prospect. He tried to fish around in his mind for inspiration--that bloke in the business suit at the bus stop, the woman who worked in the shop, the newest student to move into the house--but nothing could stir his cock from its lackadaisical mood.

Maybe it was because he was tired, maybe it was because he’d had some to drink, maybe it was because he was fed up with the world treating him like its personal punching bag; Martin couldn’t give a fuck that he couldn’t get it up to fuck.

He lifted his head to look at the confused expression on Celeste’s face. Martin doubted that this had ever happened to her before; in fact he was quite sure that Celeste had never failed to arouse a man and, as a person well experienced in disappointing sexual encounters, he felt a fleeting pang of guilt for what this might do to her confidence.

“Sorry to have wasted your time,” Martin apologised as he got up from the couch.

Martin was glad she didn’t say anything as he left. He wouldn’t have had anything to add; he was content just to be the one who walked away for once.

* * *

**Four**

Martin never imagined that his embarrassing excuse for a sex life could actually get _more_ embarrassing.

Then he fell off a bed.

He just lay there, seeing no reason to get up and put himself through any more humiliation. Martin had landed on his shoulder and he worried about how it would affect the upcoming van jobs he desperately needed to make it through the month. He pushed himself onto his back, feeling the carpet rub against his bare back and arse, and stared up at the ceiling.

Arthur poked his head over the edge of the bed and looked down at him.

“Are you all right, Skip?” he asked.

Martin crossed his arms over his face, trying to ignore the niggling thought that Carolyn was probably somewhere in the house and would have definitely heard the thud.

"I'm fine, Arthur," Martin sighed. "But if it's all the same to you, I think I'll just go home."

* * *

**Five**

Martin was at the end of his tether.

They’d been stuck at the smallest, dingiest airfield Martin had ever seen, and that was really saying something, for _hours_. The client was the well-to-do older brother of the airfield manager and he’d hired MJN to fly him there so he could inform his younger brother that he was buying the airfield and taking it off his hands. This, of course, sparked a heated argument between the siblings, the result of which was the airfield manager refusing to give them clearance to take off until his older brother, as he so eloquently put it, ‘took the contract and shoved it up his arse.’

The heat of the day had turned everyone into the worst versions of themselves. Carolyn argued with the brothers, trying to side with whoever seemed like MJN’s ticket out of the standoff, and ended up calling them both idiots. Douglas had won every game he could come up with to pass the time and had taken to playing Twenty Questions with Martin’s life, regardless of whether or not Martin wanted to play. Arthur was Arthur; nothing was more grating than to hear that things were ‘brilliant’ when they clearly were not brilliant.

After Douglas’ last series of questions came perilously close to unveiling that Martin was a virgin, even without any answers from Martin, he decided to take his leave from the airfield manager’s office, exchanging the comfort of air conditioning for the relief of silence. Martin wandered into the rundown hangar where he saw a man circling GERTI with a mix of confusion and distaste on his face.

“Can I help you?” Martin asked.

The man turned from his inspection of the aeroplane and gave Martin a once over.

“Is this your plane, mate?” he questioned, knocking a hand against the fuselage.

“Yes. Why?”

“Piece of rubbish she is.”

“What?” Martin bristled. The man looked a little surprised by Martin’s response; he gave a curt nod as if his observation was obvious. “She is not,” Martin replied firmly. “She may be getting on in years but GERTI is a fine piece of aerospace engineering.”

“‘Aerospace engineering’?” he laughed. He slapped GERTI with the flat of his hand and Martin cringed involuntarily at the rattling noise she made. “She’s more gaffer tape and string than she is engineering. Calling her an aeroplane would be an insult to aeroplanes.”

On a different day, Martin might’ve left the dirty, arrogant man alone with his opinion but his tolerance for other people’s opinions about his life had run out. As the captain, an insult to his aircraft was the same as an insult to himself and Martin was not going to stand there and take it. He straightened his captain’s hat and stepped towards the man, determined to defend his aircraft even if the other man was taller and broader than he was.

“Who are you to make such assessments about _my_ aircraft?” Martin demanded.

The man crossed his arms over his chest and squared his body to Martin’s. “The name’s Darren and I’m the chief engineer at this airfield,” he answered.

“‘Chief engineer’?” Martin scoffed. “Judging by the size of this place, I’d guess you’re the only engineer. Congratulations on beating out yourself for such a prestigious position.”

Darren tensed at the accusation but he didn’t make any attempt to refute it. The scowl on his face hardened as he stomped into Martin’s personal space. He looked over Martin again, his gaze landing on the hat perched atop Martin’s head.

“I should congratulate you, _Captain_ ,” Darren said, mockery dripping from his last word. “It must take great skill to pilot an aircraft that looks like it should’ve fallen out of the sky ages ago.”

Martin did his best to stand tall in the face of Darren’s glare. “I’ll have you know that I conduct a meticulous walk around before each and every flight. There is nothing wrong with my aircraft.”

“‘Nothing wrong’?” Darren repeated. He thrust an arm back to point at GERTI. “The rear tires are nearly bald.”

Martin lifted his chin defiantly. “There is nothing wrong with my aircraft.”

“It’s leaking hydraulics fluid.”

“There is _nothing_ wrong with my aircraft.”

“The whole thing smells like fish!” Darren shouted.

“Then someone turned on the second ‘No Smoking’ sign even though everyone knows not to turn it on!”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard a pilot say!”

“ _I am a captain!_ ”

Martin snapped. His temper flared out of control as his sense of propriety shattered, already worn thin from hours of heat and arguing. He shouted at the top of his lungs and his body shook with anger. Martin’s hands balled into fists at his side, as if his body was preparing for an altercation.

Darren also snapped. He lunged at Martin but not in the way Martin’s body had prepared for. Darren caged Martin’s face in his hands, assaulting Martin’s mouth with his own with such force that it knocked the hat off Martin’s head. Everything about it was rough; the dry air-chapped lips that threatened to devour his, the irritation of Darren’s five o’clock shadow, the grip he held on Martin’s head.

It took Martin’s mind a few moments to recover and catch up to the situation. He opened his mouth to argue, to protest and push the engineer off of him, but Darren seized the opportunity to stick his tongue in Martin’s mouth making the pilot’s complaints morph into hungry moans of lust. Martin grabbed Darren’s grease-smeared shirt in both hands and pressed forward, returning the other man’s finesseless kiss and receiving a grunt of approval when he nipped not so nicely at Darren’s lower lip.

Darren dragged Martin back to the farthest corner of the hangar, away from the relentless sun and GERTI’s wary watch. They crashed into his office; Darren grabbed Martin around the waist and dropped him onto the desk. Even sitting on the desk, Martin wasn’t as tall as Darren so he ran his hands through the engineer’s short hair and pulled him back down to the combative kiss. They fought each other for control, neither man willing to let the other be fully responsible for the tense, but heated, pleasure.

Hands fell to Martin’s trousers, making quick work of his belt and fly. His fingers dug into Darren’s arms when the engineer’s skilled hand wrapped around Martin’s cock, giving it a stroke through his pants. Martin’s head fell to Darren’s shoulder and he grit his teeth against the feel of a hand on his cock that wasn’t his own. Martin whimpered, a sound he’d deny until his dying day, as a thumb rubbed over the dampening head.

“I’d let every scrap of junk land here if I knew someone like you was sitting in the cockpit,” Darren muttered next to Martin’s ear.

“She isn’t scrap or junk,” Martin complained. “She’s an aeroplane.”

“Barely,” Darren chuckled.

Martin pushed away from the other man, his features pulling into a frown despite the hand on his cock. “No,” he said sternly, “she _is_ an aeroplane and a perfectly dependable one at that.”

“One you can depend on to kill you.”

“She is not.”

“She is too.” Martin opened his mouth to argue and Darren stepped back, taking his hands away from Martin and staring at him in disbelief. “Are you really going to fight me on this? Now? Even though it’s painfully obvious that she can barely perform the one function she was made to do?”

The last barb stoked Martin’s anger, causing his ire to burn hotter than his lust. He couldn’t, no, he wouldn’t stand for it; GERTI didn’t have to meet anyone’s standards but Martin’s and as long as she flew for him, as long as she had the power to take them away from this hellhole, he would defend her.

With as much dignity as he could muster with his trousers undone, Martin pushed Darren aside and got down from the desk. He held his trousers up and marched out of the office. Martin pulled up his fly and fastened his belt as he walked back to the front of the hangar, stopping only to pick up his fallen hat. He brushed some dirt off and set it on his head. He looked up at GERTI and gently pat her with his hand, letting his fingers trail along her underbelly as he headed back to the airfield manager’s office.

There was nothing wrong with GERTI, just as there was nothing wrong with her Captain.

Nothing wrong at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**And One**

“I’ve never seen an orchestra perform.”

“An orchestra?”

“You know, a real orchestra with violins and trumpets and those horns where the tubing’s all twisted and the musician sticks their hand in the opening. How could I write about classical music if I’ve never seen an orchestra perform, let alone know what the twisty tubed horn is called?”

Nate paused in his scrubbing of the dinner dishes to shake his head at the gap in his knowledge.

Martin chuckled, stretching his arms above his head as he reclined on the couch. He didn’t understand Nate’s desire to know everything; the writer was always working under the assumption that he might one day need to write about a topic that he never found the time to expose himself to. Martin assumed that worry was what drove Nate’s love of conversation. Nate loved to converse, often going beyond standard topics and asking Martin odd questions like ‘Do you think everyone should be made to write poetry?’ or ‘In what part of the world did you think the sky looked the best?’. Martin did his best to answer and, to his credit, Nate always listened.

This was their fifth date. Martin had been away from Fitton for almost two weeks and he was pleased when Nate insisted he come over for dinner on his first night back. It was the first time anyone had offered to cook dinner for Martin. It was also his first time in Nate’s flat. It was small and in disarray--books, magazines, newspapers, and notebooks were stacked over every surface--but Martin was warm, well fed, and in good company; there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

“I’ve never tried to learn a musical instrument either,” Nate added. He glanced back at Martin and asked, “Have you?”

“No,” Martin answered. Nate shrugged and Martin’s gaze lingered on his shoulders as he turned back to the dishes. “Caitlyn took piano lessons but I was never interested.”

Martin settled more comfortably onto the couch; it was relaxing to watch Nate wash the dishes he’d refused Martin’s help with. The sound of running water provided a soothing background to Nate’s discussion about the importance of music in relation to literature. The other man constantly moved while he worked, gesturing with his soapy hands while he talked or unconsciously swaying his hips as he scrubbed; Martin found the sight endearing, even a bit enticing. The beer they drank over dinner also added to his ease, loosening Martin up after thirteen days of demanding clients and occasionally overbearing co-workers.

“Am I missing something?” Nate asked from the sink. “I mean, is it bad that I’ve reached this point in my life and I don’t know the difference between Bach and Beethoven?”

“I wouldn’t know, I don’t know the difference either,” Martin yawned. He leaned his head back on the couch and let his eyes fall shut as he murmured, “I’m probably the wrong person to ask, seeing as I’ve gotten this far in life and I’ve never had sex.”

The words were gone, out of his mouth and beyond his grasp, before Martin fully realized what they were. He opened his eyes and glanced around the room, hoping to find that he’d dreamed the comfort and conversation and had actually admitted his virginity to his empty attic room. It was the only time Martin had ever wished he was alone and, as the world could always be counted on to give him exactly what he did not want, Martin was still in Nate’s flat, still sitting less than ten paces away from Nate. He closed his eyes and held his breath as he waited for Nate to start talking again, desperately hoping that the other man hadn’t heard him and his slip of the tongue could pass by unnoticed.

The water in the sink stopped running.

“What?”

Martin opened his eyes to see Nate turned towards him with a questioning look, dishes temporarily forgotten as water dripped off one of his hands.

“Nothing.”

“Did you say you’ve never had sex?”

“No,” Martin lied, “no, no, of course not. Why, why would I say that?”

“It’s just, it sounded like-”

“I mean, that’s a, that’s a ridiculous idea, isn’t it? A grown man who's, who’s never had sex?”

“Martin,” Nate started to say.

“It would be utterly embarrassing to be a virgin at thirty-four or, or at any age at all! Well, not _any_ age, obviously, but, but any age at which it becomes embarrassing to, to not have had sex by, whatever it may be.”

“Martin-”

“I certainly didn’t say that because I’m certainly not... _that_.”

It took every ounce of Martin’s concentration to keep the nonchalant expression on his face as he held Nate’s gaze. Nate studied him for a few moments before turning his back on Martin and returning to the dishes.

“Of course not,” Nate said with a small shake of his head. The water started to run again and Martin let out a sigh of relief. He almost choked on his own breath when Nate asked, “When was your first time?”

“What?” Martin coughed.

“When was your first time?” Nate asked again.

“I’m not sure I remember exactly-”

Nate shut off the water again and turned to face Martin, drying his hands on a towel as he leaned back against the sink.

“ _Everyone_ remembers their first time, Martin.”

“When was yours?”

“I was sixteen,” Nate answered without hesitation. “It was with a girl named Grace Wilkinson. She was in the year above me at school; it was nice, I suppose. Later, I found out she only did it to get back at her boyfriend but it turned out I wasn’t really that into girls so it sort of worked out in everyone’s best interests,” he chuckled. He dropped the towel onto the counter behind him and slid his hands into his pockets. “And you?”

Martin’s mind raced as he tried to come up with a convincing fabrication. He could’ve chosen any one of his failed attempts, he remembered them just as vividly as Nate seemed to remember his first time, but Martin’s imagination couldn’t be stretched to twist the ends of those stories into anything that wasn’t an embarrassing testament to his life. Martin could feel Nate watching him expectantly but he didn’t trust himself to say anything that wouldn’t make the situation worse.

“I’d better get going,” Martin mumbled as he pushed himself to his feet.

Martin made a beeline for the front door but Nate intercepted him.

“Wait, Martin, wait.” Nate tried to grab Martin’s hand but he pulled it away and continued his advance towards the door. Nate stepped in front of him and stood in his way, barring Martin’s exit. He twisted his neck to try to meet Martin’s elusive gaze. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. You really are a virgin, aren’t you?” Nate asked gently.

Martin didn’t answer, although he probably provided an answer by not answering. He kept his head down, eyes fixed firmly to the floor, as a flush quickly spread over his face. Nate reached for his hand again; Martin let Nate close his fingers around his own but he made no move to return the gesture.

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Martin. Is... is it by choice?”

Martin scoffed at the absurdity. “Why would it be by choice?”

“Religion,” Nate suggested, putting his other hand on Martin’s arm, “abiding by the ‘no sex before marriage’ principle. Personal preference; waiting for that right person. Asexuality; having no interest in sex.” Nate’s hand slowly slid up Martin’s arm as he talked. When it reached Martin’s face, Nate coaxed his head up so their eyes could meet. “They’re all valid reasons,” Nate assured him, a smile starting to pull at the corner of the writer’s mouth, “although there were a few things that happened on our last date that lead me to believe it’s not the last one.”

Martin made a noise that was half sigh, half awkward laugh. “It’s not a choice,” he admitted. “It just... hasn’t happened.”

“Bad circumstances?”

“ _Horrible_ circumstances.”

Nate chuckled at Martin’s miserable groan and pulled him into a kiss. It was warm and comfortable, everything Martin had been before his humiliating admission slipped out. Nate pulled back from the kiss sooner than Martin liked and grinned suggestively at him.

“Did you want to give it a go?” Martin tensed in Nate’s arms causing him to move back, concern replacing the inviting smile on his face. “No?”

“No!” Martin cried, grabbing Nate with both hands to stop his retreat. “No, I mean, not no, yes but, but not yes as in yes to your ‘no.’ Yes as in yes. Yes, yes I would want to give it a go, I really would. It’s just, I, I don’t know if, what if-” Martin bit down on his lip, cutting himself off before he overheated from the embarrassment coloring his face.

Nate cocked his head in confusion. “What if what?”

“What if...” 

The words dried up in Martin’s mouth. He didn’t want to explain himself, he didn’t want to tell Nate more; it was bad enough that he’d admitted he was a virgin, he didn’t want to rehash every moment that had led up to this one. He wanted to appear capable and competent and retelling a lifetime of sexual anxieties was not the best way to do that. Martin opened his mouth to brush it all aside but, once again, his words left his mouth at a speed he couldn’t comprehend and he had no chance of taking them back.

“What if I can’t do it?” he asked, his voice loud with panic. “Or what if I say something stupid or I do something exceptionally stupid? What if it’s bloody awful and we can’t even look at each other when it’s over? What if the world intervenes in some terrible way because ‘Sorry, Martin, this just isn’t going to happen for you’?”

Neither of them said anything for a bit; Martin tried to catch his breath after his outburst and Nate stood by, looking slightly stunned by the onslaught of Martin’s insecurities.

“Then we try again.”

“But what if-”

“And again.”

“But-”

“And again,” Nate interrupted. He brought both hands to Martin’s face, keeping the pilot’s eyes on his. “Failure doesn’t mean you can’t ever succeed. You, of all people, should know that, Martin. How many tries did it take you to get your license?”

“Seven.”

“And how many times have you tried to have sex?”

“Five,” Martin almost whispered.

Nate pecked Martin on the lips as he chuckled, “Well, if we can knock this out in one try, I’d call that improvement.”

Martin tried to murmur in disagreement but Nate put a finger up to Martin’s lips and shook his head. His features softened into a small smile as he wrapped his arms around Martin’s waist.

“Martin, sex isn’t like flying a plane where you have do everything the proper way or we’ll all die. It’s more like... well, it’s more like writing; you throw some words onto the page and, while they may not be great at first, you go over them. You reread, you edit, you _revise_ until every single word on that page does exactly what you want it to do, when you want it to, and how you want it to.”

Nate pulled Martin closer until their bodies touched from head to toe, leaning his forehead against Martin’s.

“I’ll be honest,” Nate said, slipping his hands over Martin’s arse, “I didn’t invite you here just because I missed your company. You’ve been on my mind since the day you left. You’re distracting me from my work. For thirteen days, all I’ve thought about is fucking you until you’re so addled that just your presence on the flight deck becomes a danger to your crew. I’m _very_ willing to give it a go. How about you?”

Nate gasped in surprise when his back hit his front door although the sound was lost under Martin’s insistent kiss. Martin pinned Nate to the door with both hands; he groaned low in his throat when he felt Nate’s cock rub against his, already hard from hearing Nate talk about fucking him. Martin groaned again, louder, when Nate slid his hand between them and gave Martin’s cock a squeeze.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Nate mumbled against the press of Martin’s lips.

Martin grabbed Nate by the front of his shirt and pulled him back, through the small space cluttered with books and magazines, into Nate’s bedroom. Hands worked in tandem to deal with buttons and untuck and pull off shirts that were discarded carelessly onto the floor. Nate stalled Martin’s work on his belt and trousers, taking the pilot’s head in both hands and teasing his tongue’s way into Martin’s mouth.

“You or me?” Nate asked, pulling back for air.

“What?”

“Do you want me to fuck _you_ or do you want to fuck _me_?”

“You,” Martin answered quickly. “I, I want to fuck you.”

Nate moaned and caught Martin in a hungry kiss. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Nate pushed Martin back until his legs hit the bed and he fell backwards into the unmade bedding. Martin watched Nate kicked off his trousers and then his pants, giving Martin a smirk when he caught the pilot staring with his mouth open. It wasn’t the first time Martin had seen some of Nate but it was the first time he was seeing all of Nate; Nate’s lean form was a nice side effect to the writer’s inability to sit still while he was thinking. 

“Kit off,” Nate instructed from the foot of the bed. 

Martin’s hands scrambled for his belt and his fly while Nate pulled the trousers down his legs and tugged at his pants. Once Martin was naked, Nate climbed into bed; Martin’s nerves stood on end as Nate’s hands skated over his legs, followed by the other man’s tongue as it marked a trail along Martin’s inner thigh. Nate lay between Martin’s legs, taking a moment to enjoy the squirming pilot underneath him, and licked a long, flat stripe up the underside of Martin’s cock.

“Nate.” 

Martin barely got the writer’s name out, his speech deteriorating into guttural moans as his cock slid into Nate’s mouth. Nate had a talented tongue; his impressive diction and expansive vocabulary seemed to translate into control over the muscle that Martin couldn’t begin to fathom. Martin’s hands twisted into the bedding under him. He almost couldn’t enjoy the pleasure; his worry grew along with the mounting tension in his body but he couldn’t form the words he needed to ask Nate to stop. He reached down for Nate’s brown hair and tugged repeatedly until Nate lifted his head from Martin’s groin.

“Can’t,” Martin tried to explain, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm his body. “Nate, please?”

“Right. Sit up.”

Martin moved up the bed, sitting with his back against the wall while Nate dove into a box under the chair that acted as his nightstand. He came back up and straddled over Martin’s lap, holding a small tube of lube in one hand and a condom between his teeth. He pressed the condom into Martin’s hand and opened the tube, squeezing some of the product onto his fingers.

Martin watched, unsure of what to do, as Nate’s hand disappeared between his legs. Nate swore softly, leaning into to Martin to steady himself while his hand began to pick up a rhythm. Martin just watched, both fascinated by the new expressions that ran over Nate’s face and anxious over the thought that he should be doing something. He hesitantly reached for Nate’s busy hand; Martin was surprised and slightly relieved when Nate pushed his hand away.

“No,” he breathed, lifting his head to look at Martin. “Baby steps.”

Nate flashed Martin a grin before he weaved a hand behind Martin’s neck and brought their lips together. Martin threw himself into the kiss, glad to be doing something he knew how to do. He ran his hand through Nate’s hair, holding the other man to him as Nate’s breathing grew ragged under the work of his hand.

The condom was plucked from Martin’s hand; Nate pulled back from the kiss to tear the wrapper open with his teeth and roll it onto Martin’s cock. Martin’s eyes were fixed to Nate as the writer pushed himself up and sank back into Martin’s lap, taking his virginity and his cock in one simple movement.

It was tight. It was warm. It was different from a mouth and nothing like his hand. It was _new_.

“Not a virgin anymore,” Nate whispered next to Martin’s ear. He ran his hand through Martin’s red curls, then pulled back to address Martin’s uncertainty. “I’m going move now,” he said with a nod. 

Not sure of what else to do, Martin nodded back.

When Nate moved, when he shifted in Martin’s lap so that Martin’s cock slid nearly out and then back into his arse, Martin finally understood what all the fuss had been about.

It was _fucking fantastic_.

It was hard to say whether the loud moan drawn from Nate’s next movement came from him or Martin. The writer slumped forward, burying his hands in Martin’s red hair, and raised himself further onto his knees for more leverage. Martin’s hands ran down over Nate’s back and settled on the other man’s hips. Martin held him while he moved, taking a few moments to observe the pattern of motion; Nate threw his head back, his hands fisting roughly in Martin’s hair, when Martin made an experimental thrust up.

“Fuck,” Nate growled. “Do that again.”

Martin did as he was told. The moan was definitely Nate’s this time as he arched his back to meet Martin’s thrust. Martin raised his hips again and again and, guided by muttered directions from Nate, they fell into a rhythm. It wasn’t perfect, sometimes the pace faltered or the angle was wrong, but every mistake was made up for by the next thrust that made Nate moan, swear, or call out Martin’s name.

Martin struggled against his instinct to close his eyes in order to heighten the sensations in his cock. He’d failed too many times to get to this point, he wasn’t going to miss a moment of his first successful sexual encounter. He drank in the sight of Nate riding his cock, sweat starting to bead off of Nate’s brown hair as his movements intensified. Nate grasped for Martin’s hand and closed it around his cock with his own, making Martin stroke him in time with his thrusts.

It was looking to be over all too quickly as the tension inside Martin grew towards its breaking point. His hand dug into Nate’s hip as his pace quickened and his thrusts became erratic. 

Martin moaned loudly as he came inside Nate with one last, forceful thrust. Nate threatened to outdo Martin vocally as he came shortly after, his usual articulate expressions reduced to a loud series of swears and curses. Nate draped his arms over Martin’s shoulders, breathing heavily into Martin’s hair, and carefully lifted himself off Martin’s cock. He kissed the top of Martin’s head, then let himself fall backwards and collapse into a heap between Martin’s legs. 

Martin slouched back against the wall behind him, closing his eyes with a long, content sigh. He rid himself of the condom and looked down at Nate who appeared to be falling asleep. Martin pushed himself off the wall, feeling aches in muscles he’d never noticed before, and moved down the bed to lie beside Nate.

Nate opened his eyes and smiled sleepily at Martin. “You’re still looking at me, that’s a good sign. Not awful?”

“No, no, not awful,” Martin answered. He felt a flush color his cheeks, knowing that Nate had to know exactly how ‘not awful’ that experience had been. “Can... can we do it again?”

“If you’d like,” Nate chuckled. “Nap first though.”

Nate leaned forward to give Martin a quick kiss. His eyes fell closed again as he started to drift off.

“Nate?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

“Martin, you don’t have to thank-”

“And it’s called a french horn.”

Nate’s eyes snapped open and he grinned from ear to ear. The bright smile that graced his face was the one that came out whenever there was one more thing in the world that he understood; the expression on Martin’s face looked very much the same. Nate grabbed Martin by the back of his head and pulled him in for another kiss. It was light and teasing, promising a reward for Martin’s fact once Nate had regained his energy. He left Martin’s lips, gathering the pilot in his arms as he dropped kisses on Martin’s cheeks, nose, and forehead before nuzzling into his curly red hair.

With his body tired and spent and warm in Nate’s embrace, Martin also started to nod off. He barely registered the word mumbled in his hair, a token of appreciation, admiration, and affection all rolled into one.

“Brilliant.”


End file.
